


Storm Warning

by cofax



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003), Farscape
Genre: Crossover, F/F, Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-08
Updated: 2010-03-08
Packaged: 2017-10-07 19:46:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cofax/pseuds/cofax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Whoever she is, she is, like Aeryn, a very long way from home.</i></p><p>A response to Laura Shapiro's Aeryn/Starbuck vid <a href="http://laurashapiro.dreamwidth.org/296130.html">Hurricane</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storm Warning

It's one of those reaches of space where strange things happen. Leviathans get lost, Hetch drives sputter and then triple their velocity, and chakkan oil turns to cooking fluid. Astronomical constants aren't. And Aeryn's almost out of fuel.

There is, naturally, a space station, dancing gingerly on the LaGrange point of a bloated purple gas giant. The ships tethered to its docking ring range from square little in-system shuttles to bulbous cargo carriers with translucent hulls. Aeryn doesn't see any other Peacekeeper craft, but that doesn't mean there aren't any. In fact, there must have been some, at one time, because the automated docking system routes her to a bay with an entry compatible with her Prowler.

She exits the cockpit with a groan, stretching limbs too-long confined in that small space, and grateful that she doesn't suffer from claustrophobia. First stop is the port-master's office, to exchange the courier pouch she carries for tokens for food, fuel, and lodging. Second stop is is a humanoid hostelry on the third level of the station, where she spends more than she can afford on a hot-steam rinsing for herself and her clothes. Peacekeeper leathers are sturdy and don't hold odors, but the same can't be said for her underlayers. On the way out, she tosses a chit to the Indari on the door: it feels marvelous to be clean, and she has no obligations for the next forty arns.

Three doors down the row is an establishment with a shining silver bar, glossy tables, and a 270-degree wall display that looks almost exactly like a window over the gas giant below. The decor is understated, the service staff dressed in matching uniforms; Aeryn curls a lip and passes it by.

A level up, where the gravity is noticeably lower, she finds what she's looking for sandwiched between a Luxan pornography shop and an eatery populated mostly by hexapods. It's a pilots' bar: wobbly tables scattered in an uneven distribution across a floor that looks sticky with spilled liquid, a single robotic server at the bar pouring out drinks that would take grease off a Hetch drive, and a dozen men and women in stained flight suits and mismatched uniform pieces drinking heavily over games of chance.

The bar doesn't have fellip nectar, nor whiskey. Aeryn settles for something clear, and nearly flavorless until it's halfway down her throat. She manages not to cough at the burn, puts the glass down with a solid "tink", and says, hoarsely, "Another."

After the drink is poured, Aeryn turns around and props herself against the bar, watching the rest of the crowd. Mostly humanoid for once, although there's a Luxan in the corner--one of the pale ones, with skin as fair as her own and cream-colored braids, so she won't keep mistaking it for D'Argo. Two short creatures in robes are seated by the door, squatting on the floor around a holographic game board. And half a dozen people who could pass for Sebacean (or human, she admits) surround the biggest table, in the center of the room. The table is scattered with gaming chits, scraps of paper, and half-empty glasses.

As Aeryn watches, the player closest to her, a tall dark man with woven locks halfway down his back, places a chit in the center of the table and then lays three cards down. He doesn't say anything, and the woman to his right, red-haired and buxom, swears in what sounds to Aeryn like English before folding her cards in her hand and slumping back in her chair in disgust.

Two other men, pale and dark, meet the bet, and the last player smirks. She's a solid-looking blonde woman with hair chopped raggedly to her jaw line, and her flight suit looks like it's outlived its usefulness. There's a scar on her muscled shoulder, and another one running the length of her right forearm. Whoever she is, she is, like Aeryn, a very long way from home. As Aeryn watches, she scans the faces of her competitors, tosses back a slug of alcohol easily three times the size of the one Aeryn just swallowed, and slams her cards on the table.

There's a roar, outmatched by the size of the blonde's grin as she sweeps all the winnings to herself. The tall dark guy rumbles something, and the blonde just smirks at him again. Then she looks up at Aeryn and winks.

There's a smear of something on the woman's neck, possibly engine grease mixed with sweat. She looks strong, sharp-edged and confident like one of Aeryn's creche-mates. She probably tastes like cheap alcohol and chakkan oil and the fear-sweat of a sweeping attack against a fixed position.

Aeryn lifts her glass and winks back, deciding that there might, in fact, be better things to do with her time than spend the next forty arns drinking.


End file.
